Remember
by Unsuspected
Summary: She's always asking you if you remember this or remember that. It's almost as if she doesn't know that's all you do. Oneshot


She's always asking you if you remember this or remember that.

It's almost as if she doesn't know that's all you do—remember.

But she does know; she knows that you can't sleep five days of the week and that even on those rare nights you manage to find yourself asleep, there is still no salvation from the thoughts that eternally plague your mind.

And that's why she asks.

To make sure you remember other things.

Her gold dress and the pink Pygmy Puff, Arnold and the fire that was constantly roaring in the Gryffindor common room.

She wants you to remember the rainy Quidditch practices and that first kiss in the common room and the maggot in your hair that Christmas at the Burrow.

But you linger on the bubblegum-pink of Tonks's hair, and how on occasion, you'll catch Teddy donning the exact same shade, without having the slightest idea why no one seemed quite as happy after that. Your thoughts refuse to move away from George's now few smiles and how very unlike himself he looks without Fred.

And her light-brown eyes and her bright, crooked smile and the way she drinks hot chocolate on the warmest of summer days almost comfort you.

But they don't. Nothing can. Because the way she drinks lemonade with chocolate frogs only reminds you of Lupin, her jokes that you'll be on those cards someday soon that you'll always be famous for fighting a war you didn't want.

Even kissing her feels like some sort of betrayal, as though this was for only happier times, reserved for won Quidditch matches and sunny spring days. Days that are not yours. Stolen days, taken away from the life of someone so much better than you, happier than you, so much less broken than you.

"It's nearly your birthday," she tells you one day. "I'm afraid you'll be getting a different gift than last year."

You almost laugh.

Until she says it. "Remember," she asks, smirking slightly, "how upset Hermione got when Ron—"

Even though you pale slightly at those first three syllables despite the heat, you too find yourself smiling.

You wonder if it's okay to smile. You think it is. But it feels foreign, almost unwelcome.

She, however, is happy for the small curve of your lips.

She tells you with a small laugh, "And then Ron goes and snogs her right in front of you a few months later, like he hadn't said anything at all. What was it you'd said before?"

And you find yourself almost laughing, though the choked sound from the back of your throat sounds nothing like your own. "More of what you'd said. I mean, personally, I think 'hypocrite' captures it quite well."

And suddenly you're talking again—_really_ talking, properly—and it gradually becomes more normal, and it strikes you that this is the first truly normal interaction you've had with anyone since… Well, in all honesty you can barely remember the last normal conversation you've had. When was it? A month? A year?

But now… You're talking and it's almost like none of it ever happened, because she's not talking about Voldemort, as everyone else seems to do when you're in sight, or remind you that she's always happy to talk as the others say. She's talking about Quidditch. And not in that forced way Ron will sometimes try to do (which, to be honest, you don't really blame him for), but in the way she would talk about anything else, the way she would talk about it to anyone else.

She, of course, voices her fondness for the Holyhead Harpies. You are reminded of the faded poster that once hung in her room that has now disappeared.

You almost asked her why once, but decided against it.

You don't this time either, not because you think it might be awkward, but because you can't quite bring yourself to interrupt her as she goes on about Gwenog Jones and how she'd like to play for them someday (but not today or tomorrow or even months from now, even if Mrs. Weasley would let her).

Apparently she notices your silence, though, because she cuts herself off mid-sentence, as if to ask you why that one sentence quieted you. (Maybe she figures it out, or maybe she thinks better of it, but she doesn't ask.) You return to the subject of Quidditch.

And maybe it's subconscious at this point, but you notice that once again she's asking you to remember. This time the Quidditch World Cup, the bet Fred and George had made, and of course she mentions the Death Eaters (to pretend it never happened would be ridiculous), but for the most part you talk about Krum's performance as Seeker, because he really was brilliant.

She tells you she's glad you didn't actually have a lifelong ban, because she says, "And before you think I'm being selfless here, let me tell you, I imagine you're the only person in the universe who'd prefer sitting around waiting for a microscopic gold ball to appear to actually flying around— It was great to play at all, but honestly—Seeker! I felt useless, just sitting there, flying around the field like an idiot."

"You were pretty good at it, if I recall," you tell her, "winning and all."

"Did you even see me play _once_?" she asked. "I would have thought you were too busy saving people."

You decide not to remind her to add detention. (It doesn't matter, because she says it at the exact same time you're thinking it.)

"You really thought I wouldn't remember?" she asks.

And this time, you don't quite mind the word so much.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Argh, curse you sloppy ending. It's extremely obvious I have a weakness for angsty Harry and fantastic Ginny. I'd apologize for that, but honestly I'm not all that sorry. Also, this is for Kelly (livingondaydreams) because I owe her so many fics. This is what I wrote instead. (But you will get your AmyRory and Thaluke eventually, I swear.) Thank you for reading!**


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